


Processing...

by Marmosette



Series: Drunk Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Mycroft Holmes, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: He has been drinking.





	Processing...

Mycroft was drunk.

 

It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before, but this time, Greg felt capable of steering. Usually he had a head start and Mycroft came home later, and his memories of those times were never clear. This time, though, John was on his team. 

It wasn’t like John wasn’t always on his team. If push came to stabbing, John would probably take his side, unless Mycroft did something in particular to terrify him. And come to think of it, it had been a long time since John had been susceptible to Mycroft’s brand of terrorism (domestic).

And, finally, it wasn’t like Sherlock would ever take Mycroft’s side over Greg’s, and if Sherlock was against it and there was no obvious reason not to, John followed.

So what it _was_ like was this: John and Sherlock had lured Mycroft to Baker Street, for whatever reason, and Molly had called him. “All I know is that they solved a case, something for Mycroft, but somehow he’s… something.”

“Who is?”

“Mycroft. I think you’d better come have a look.”

Greg pounded up the stairs, rationalising as he came. Mycroft could handle himself. He wouldn’t stay and pound his head against the brick wall that was John-and-Sherlock. Not without good reason. And Mycroft was capable of some terrifyingly good reasons, really. Oh, God, what had they done?…

Mycroft, strangely, was sitting on the sofa. He was smiling. Benignly. _Smiling_. At John. Who was giggling. And Sherlock was smiling. The fourth horseman of this apocalypse stood in the kitchen doorway, also smiling, also benignly: Mrs Hudson.

Greg looked around at them all. “Okay… Someone want to tell me what happened?”

Mycroft had turned to look up at him, and opened his mouth. That was what Greg thought of as his “smarmy smile” on his lips, complete with the fluttered eyelashes he did when he was about to be irritatingly smug and superior, and then he stopped. He took another breath, and paused.

“No, wait for it,” John said. Greg glanced at him, and he was staring at Mycroft, his finger pointing at the older Holmes brother.

Mycroft glanced at John, tipped his head, and thought for a moment. 

“He’s been like this for the last twenty minutes,” Mrs Hudson said, her arms folded as she leaned against the door frame, watching. “I almost like him, like this.”

Greg opened his mouth to say something heated, then closed it again with a bit of a groan. “What’s happened to him?”

“Scotch,” Sherlock said, nodding at the tumbler in Mycroft’s hand. “More than you’d think. Obviously more than _he_ thought.”

Mycroft turned back to him, blinking erratically. He looked down at the glass, raised it, turned it in the light, and studied it for a moment.

Greg waited, but all that happened was another burst of giggling from John. “Mizz Hudson! D’we have any left? Greg needs…something.”

“The bottle’s next to your chair, dear. Oh, Inspector, there are clean glasses in the cupboard. And Molly’s on her way back with takeaway. I’m not sure it’s wise to let them eat, but they’re not _my_ rugs.” She sidled past him toward the stairs. 

He turned distractedly to watch her pass, then spun back to the room. “Molly said this was a case,” he said, deciding to start over. He shrugged off his overcoat and folded it over his arm, looking for somewhere to put it, and wound up keeping it on his lap when he sat down next to Mycroft. 

“It was,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft asked me to take a look at something for the Home Secretary. Again.”

Greg grit his teeth until he could trust himself not to shout. “And you solved it.”

“Naturally. More threatening with the birthday honours list—”

“Which _I_ accepted,” John said quickly.

“And Mycroft refused. So did I.”

Greg glanced at his partner again, who was still staring thoughtfully at his empty glass. “Okay, that’s nice for all of you.”

“Sorry, Detective Inspector, but you know what he’s like, with all his secrets and plots,” Sherlock said just a little too loudly, watching Mycroft. And again, Mycroft looked up, opened his mouth, and…drifted.

“What’s he _doing_?” Greg asked, staring. 

“He’s thinking,” Sherlock said. “To be fair, it was a very complex case. It took us all afternoon.”

Again, Greg found he could only roll his eyes and shake his head. “All afternoon.”

The door downstairs slammed and the rustling of plastic bags preceded Molly up the stairs. “Oh! Hi, Greg!”

“Hi,” he said, eyeing the outlines of cartons of Chinese. “Let me give you a hand…”

When Greg got back to the sofa with a plate for himself and one for Mycroft, Mycroft hadn’t moved. He was still holding his glass up and staring into it thoughtfully. Greg had never before used the word correctly, he realised—Mycroft was absolutely full of thought, with no room left for anything else.

At least, that was what Greg thought, but then he noticed the bottom of Mycroft’s glass had a little more colour in it than it had had when he went out to the kitchen with Molly. “You topped him up?” Greg asked, turning to look from Sherlock to John and back again. Molly was holding plates out to each of them, which they each used as an excuse not to meet his eyes. Molly noticed this, though, and lifted the plates out of reach just before they touched them. Her mouth was set in a tight, straight line as she stared at him pointedly. He had a flash of nervousness before he realised she was only looking at him so she didn’t have to look at either of the two idiots in chairs.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock said casually, letting his hand fall back into his lap. “He looked…sad.”

“Did he,” Molly snapped.

Greg blinked, surprised to find her allying so nearly with Mycroft. He didn’t think she could stand him, somehow.

“We-eelll,” John drawled. Greg could almost see the word slosh out of his mouth and splat on the floor. “I held up the bottle and he blinked a lot. I thought he was going to rejoin us just then. But nope. Off he went.”

Greg set the plates down on the coffee table and turned to Mycroft, still staring at his glass. Greg picked up his near hand and rubbed his wrist absently. People did that in old movies. There was a lot of folk wisdom out there, wasn’t there? Surely it had made it into early movies for a reason. Then again, Mycroft was probably allergic to the thought of “folk wisdom,” and Greg was just killing him with his mind just by thinking while in the same room as Mycroft.

“Mycroft,” he said loudly, leaning forward, trying to get the man’s attention. Mycroft’s head turned slowly, but his focus was a million miles from Baker Street. “Oi, you in there? Maybe you should—I think you should eat something.”

Mycroft’s eyes were pointed at him—dilated pupils and all—but there was no sign he was understanding what Greg said. Greg waved his hand in front of Mycroft’s face, and all he got was Mycroft slowly turning away until he was staring straight ahead.

“Oh God, I’ve lost him.”

“Relax, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, and this was a proper drawl, the words drawn out and as condescending as only a Holmes could manage. Being Sherlock, however, it was a ploy, and he slid his plate from Molly’s hand while she and Greg were trying to frame a suitably caustic response to Sherlock’s apathy. “Just let him think for a while. His brain will be back online by morning. Midday at the latest.”

**Author's Note:**

> I knew a guy once who was extremely funny and played in a lot of local bands, but happily told people he wouldn't drink because "when I drink, my reactions slow down, so I have time to think about what I say before I say it, and then I start laughing, and I never get anything said. I just sit there laughing to myself." And given how fast the Holmes boys think, what happens to *them* when they get drunk?


End file.
